The Pernicious Possession of the Perfect Professor
by AvalonianDream
Summary: Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award, answers to a gross attempt at defamation by Joanne Rowling and tells the true story of his brief tenure as a Hogwarts professor.
1. Note from a golden-haired author

Truth, my dear readers, is a fickle thing; every story changes when it is told, and in time even the most heroic and grand tales become unrecognizable. Indeed, as my colleagues in the scholarly world are acutely aware of, it is not an uncommon practice amongst authors to present altered or completely fictitious stories as indisputably genuine!

In contemporary wizarding society, one such account is often used as the prime example: The biography of my close, personal friend Harry Potter – the Boy Who Lived - by the squib Joanne Rowling. As most of my readers will know, the scandalous misrepresentation of our dear Minister's marital status covered the frontpage of every newspaper. For the sake of discussion, I believe it pertinent to quote the delectable Mrs. Potter: "There is no truth to the allegations of Mrs. Rowling – my husband and I have always been and will always be faithful to each other."

It is perfectly understandable that the frontpage is reserved for discussion of the allegations brought against Mr. and Mrs. Potter – after all, it is not every day that the marriage of a minister and a national hero is brought into question. Furthermore, as the Prophet's brilliant reporter Miss Skeeter points out, the claims may well be construed as an attack upon the progressive administration of muggleborn Mrs. Potter (née Granger).

The works of Mrs. Rowling, however, are far more sinister than mere political machination. Indeed, below the surface of the second volume in the series lies a vicious attack upon my person; a deliberate attempt at defamation, which – although partially based upon true circumstances – I cannot in good conscience refrain from answering. Before further explanation can be presented, I believe it necessary to state an indisputable fact: I am not now and have never been a patient in the permanent spelldamage ward of St. Mungo's. A few of you may doubt my academic trustworthiness. I urge those of you to investigate for yourself – I have opened my record at St. Mungo's to the public, in the hope of convincing you of my mental well-being.

On the topic of facetious literature, I have a confession to make. My previously published work is – although presented as true – completely fictitious. The only award I have ever received is Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award, of which my faithful readers know I am a five-time recipient. My perfect smile was of little assistance in the subjugation of the adversary with which I was faced during my short tenure as a professor at Hogwarts; sadly, I was faced with a dark _lord_, not a dark _lady_. As such, I had to rely upon another talent of mine: The magics of the mind.

When I graduated Hogwarts in '84, my head of house and later colleague and friend, Professor Filius Flitwick, told me that – should I choose to apply myself in the area of research – my prodigious understanding of the memory charm could one day revolutionize the field. What Filius failed to understand is that my perfect grasp of such magic stems from an intuitive understanding of the workings of a human mind. I am a natural Occlumens. By the time I arrived at Hogwarts, I had perfected it to the degree that not even the sorting hat could penetrate my defenses. Indeed, when the hat was placed upon my golden locks, it merely asked me which house I wanted to belong to. As I recall, its exact words were, and I quote, _"Well fuck a duck, I got nothing. Where do you want to go?"_

Throughout my first four years at Hogwarts, I developed an affinity for Legilimency. I quickly found that the easiest way to pass the classes was to simply pluck the answers directly from the mind of the teacher. In retrospect, I would probably have a wider repertoire of spells if I had not used this method. It was, however, a necessity were I to learn everything there was to know about fashion and more importantly hairstyling – after all, what is the point of casting advanced spells if your hair looks anything less than perfect? The only teacher with whom this method did not lead to success was Severus Snape, himself an accomplished Occlumens. This worked out fine, as potions was a secondary passion of mine. Some of you may wonder why I did not consider a career in that field. When I received my NEWTs (outstanding in potions) I had similar interests. However, I became disillusioned when my first invention - the improved Sleakeazy Hair Potion - received only little acclaim. Indeed, the lukewarm reception of a potion that would allow everyone the perfect hair with which I am naturally gifted made the dark leanings of most potion masters apparent. But I digress!

When I in fifth year was introduced to the memory charm, I was hooked. Here was a way to not only read the mind of another, but alter their memories and thus their actual perception of reality! The possibilities seemed endless, and I devoted the remaining two years of my time at Hogwarts – except from the aforementioned potions class - to the study of this spell. I must confess to a certain degree of experimentation. In fact, I once switched the memory of the cheering charm with a memory of the Tarantellegra-jinx in the mind of a particularly vicious Slytherin student, much to the chagrin of his partner in the next charms class.

After the aforementioned demoralizing reception of my world-changing potion, I resolved to attempt the greatest memory experiment in the history of the wizarding world: An alteration of not just one mind, but of the wizarding world's collective perception of reality. As such, the student who failed his Defense OWL with an abysmal T became a member of the Dark Force Defense League, an Order of Merlin recipient, and one of the country's foremost defense experts. As my experiment played out, it slowly became a way of life – my writings provided the profits I needed to travel all the world, using memory charms and Legilimency to ensure the belief that my quite obviously fictitious books were true. As the reader may surmise, a great deal of acting talent was required as well – and often, I had to travel to certain parts of the world merely to maintain my image. It is this necessity that lead to the predicament so ungallantly portrayed in the books of Mrs. Rowling.

My name is Gilderoy Lockhart, and this is the true story of how I through charm and cunning overcame the possession of Lord Voldemort.


	2. A Mysterious Letter

Our story begins – as does so many others – with the arrival of a mysterious letter. As my devoted readers will understand, I am no stranger to letters. Indeed, due to the extreme success of my previous books, I have become somewhat of an expert on the subject. Most letters I receive contain either gushing praise, requests for autographs, suggested romantic encounters, or a combination thereof. However, as the reader by now realizes, the heroic characterization of my person suggested in my works is not universally accepted. Every so often, careful readers come to the – albeit true – conclusion that my stories are fictitious. While most are civilized enough to refrain from commenting upon their discovery, some particularly brutish individuals find the need to divulge their findings to the world. In the most extreme cases, such dissidents often find it necessary to assail my letterbox with insults – often of the most vulgar and unimaginative sort.

It is to this category that the aforementioned mysterious letter belongs. As the observant reader will no doubt have realized, the mystery of the letter does not lie in the rather mundane content. Were the letter merely another expression of discontent, it would hardly be out of the ordinary. No, the mystery of the letter lies in the form. As might be expected from the uncivilized nature of my critics, the standard for such letters is vulgarity, incoherence, and an absolute disregard for the English language – mostly, a physiologically impossible request that I shove various appendages into a certain orifice. The mystery letter, however, did not subject me to such ungentlemanly torments. Rather, it contained a polite request that I meet the penman at a small pub in London, carrying a certain amount of galleons – that is, if I did not desire the exposure of my dubious character to the general public.

Naturally, I felt that such a letter required closer investigation. As my talents for memory magic were at that time not common knowledge, it was my hope that the mystery penman would underestimate my abilities and allow a careful examination of his arguments at wand-point. It was with this expectation in mind that I found myself sitting at a table in a seedy London pub on a Tuesday night in the middle of august, 1992. I had expected my villainous accuser to be easily recognizable, as most wizards of questionable intelligence are when travelling the muggle world. When no such person showed up at the agreed-upon time, I reassessed that expectation and began to look for an inconspicuous man or woman well-versed in both worlds. When I still after an hour found myself alone, I conjectured that the penman had in a stroke of luck found himself too afraid of my personage to appear. For a brief moment, I entertained the fancy that my newfound position as a teacher at my old alma mater had given me an air of credibility – then I remembered that I had not yet announced my acceptance of the position. Little did I know that the mysterious penman not only knew of my tenure – he had the year before held that very same vocation, he knew of my acceptance, and he intended to exploit it!

By now, those of my readers familiar with the exploits of Harry Potter will have realized that my mysterious correspondent was none other than the Dark Lord himself, the incorporeal spirit of Voldemort. How he managed to write a letter remains a mystery to me – although I often since attempted to persuade the tale from his lips.

Alas, I had not at the time realized the gravity of my predicament. As such, I decided upon a rather ill-advised course of action. Since I had been led to a pub, I opted to avail myself of a particular delicacy provided in such places. Being a wizarding celebrity naturally means that forays into the muggle world are short with long periods of time in between – partially since I have no fans in the muggle world, and partially because of my tight schedule (I cannot bring a Quick-Notes Quill to muggle pubs; as such, I find it hard to sign autographs there). There is one area in which the expertise of the muggles tops that of any wizard – the arts of brewing and fermentation. As many of my readers are aware of, the wizarding world sorely lacks good ale. Muggle pubs, on the other hand, overflow with such delicacies. In order to report on the quality to my readers, I was naturally inclined to taste every brew. Sadly, the rest of my evening is somewhat of a blur – as if I had performed a less-than-perfect memory charm on myself. I remember charming an attractive (and somewhat inebriated) muggle with my perfect smile, and I remember being led by the hand to her apartment. I do not remember being possessed by Lord Voldemort, although it must have happened some time during the night.

When I awoke the next morning, I noticed two things – I was not in my own bed, and I had the worst headache I have ever experienced. Ascribing the headache to my copious alcohol intake the night before, I resolved to address the former issue first. After an exchange of pleasantries, I left the apartment and apparated to my own in Diagon Alley. During my normal morning routing in which I naturally study my hair in the mirror, I was met by a most disturbing sight. Rather than the perfect, golden locks that usually cover my head, there was a red-eyed, snake-like face protruding from the back of my head! Once I was past the first shock, the face opted to give me another. It introduced itself to me in a rasping voice that would absolutely ruin my image if it was ever heard coming from me:

"Good morning, Gilderoy Lockhart. As you may have realized, I have possessed you."

Startled, I thought it best to converse with the entity. While talking, I searched my mind for the presence of an intruder.

"Um… Hello? Who are you?"

Clearly, this was the wrong question to ask. The entity spent the next minutes shouting _crucio_ at the full capacity of his (my?) lungs, luckily with no effect. In the meantime, I managed to isolate the intruder in my mind and erect an Occlumency wall, keeping our personalities separate. When the apparition became somewhat calmer and more coherent, it continued the introduction.

"I am Lord Voldemort. You, my servant, shall carry me to Hogwarts were you shall aid me in a series of events that will lead to my eventual rebirth."

I needed time to think – after all, possession by a petulant dark lord could have a rather negative effect on my image, and as such it needed to be avoided. I did the only thing I could: Stall. A complaint towards his poor skin complexion and a request that he take better care of himself if we were to share a body sent him into another fit of hysteria, mostly semi-coherent ramblings of a better time when _imperio_ was enough to control a "foppish fraud" such as myself. This gave me the interlude I needed to assess the situation. From the strength of his mental probes, I knew that he could force himself past my Occlumency barrier if he wished to. However, the ensuing mental struggle would leave me in a vegetative state – counterproductive both to my image and his plans of global conquest. Similarly, I could not force his presence from my mind if he were to struggle. As such, mental combat between us was to be avoided at all cost. I briefly considered a magical struggle – if, perhaps, I could hit the Dark Lord with a good memory charm, I might have a chance. However, if I lifted my wand to my head, he would surely take offence and initiate the discussed mental struggle. Thus, the only logical solution seemed to somehow reach an accord.

I aired this conclusion to the parasitic enemy of perfect hair. After a few seconds of wild _crucio_'s, he seemed almost impressed.

"As much as I hate to admit it, your observation is astute. What do you want? I can give you power… Knowledge… Fame, perhaps?"

I quickly dismissed his meager attempt to tempt me – after all, he was trying to sell fame to expert on creating it? The acquisition of power and knowledge were obviously unimportant when I already possessed a perfect sense of fashion and an intuitive flair for style. Thus, I could not be tempted – he had to agree to my demands.

"First of all, you cannot proceed to live in the back of my head – after all, how can I be expected to maintain a perfect hairstyle if I have to account for the extrusion of a parasitic Dark Lord? Can you not move to a less conspicuous place like my knee?"

Lord Voldemort proceeded to explain that he could either protrude from the back of my head or the middle of my chest. I was given the option of choosing. Although it pained me to deprive the witches of Hogwarts the opportunity to witness a reenactment of my shirtless brawl with a werewolf, I opted for the chest – after all, I had to protect my hair.

Of course, Lord Voldemort had demands of his own – when he required it of me, I would help him facilitate certain events at Hogwarts. Just in case his exorbitant screams of unforgivable curses had not managed to instill a certain degree of fear in me, he then proceeded to explain the many reasons I should obey him.

"Naturally, Gilderoy, you will obey me. As you so intelligently reasoned, discord between us is unwise. That is not to say I could not survive finding another host – far from it. You are convenient, but not expendable…"

"I realize that; do consider, however, that I cannot be seen to behave erratically. Not only would my image suffer, my devoted fans would notice the change."

"I will only rarely acquire your services. Another agent has been placed at the school. You – or should I say we – are a failsafe. It goes both ways, however – act erratically, and I kill you."

Obviously, any deviations from my previously set upon path were less than acceptable; indeed, they could lead to a corruption of my image. Therefore I agreed, on the condition that accidents happening to my hair – fire, frizz, so on – could constitute emergencies. After a few minutes of screaming, the Dark Lord accepted. As such, we seemed to have reached an agreement.

Finally, complacent Dark Lord resting on my chest, I began to brew a hair regrowth potion. I had only four days before I needed to appear at a book signing in Diagon Alley – and Dark Lord or not, my golden locks would be no less than perfect.


End file.
